


treachery made a monster

by scrapbullet



Category: Inception (2010), The Long Firm
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a part of him, hidden beneath the cool facade of absolute disconnection, that romanticizes the play of pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	treachery made a monster

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing has incepted my brain, and no doubt you're all somewhat annoyed with my constant barrage of fics on your flist but... when Harry wants a ficlet, he gets a ficlet. This could logically take place before my black eye casts no shadow in my crazy timeline for these two, but it can be read independently. Warning for brief mention of torture.

There is a part of him, hidden beneath the cool facade of absolute disconnection, that romanticizes the play of pain across a man’s face, the parody of a plea that ripples from a tongue so used to spilling fucking _lies_ that the little bastard might as well be shitting it out of every orifice. Wicked untruths and unrepentant rumours have been skipping from his boys tongue into the salivating mouths of clients, clients all too willing to tear into the very heart of Harry Starks, bite down deep and rip his hard-won reputation to _shreds_.

No, Harry Starks is not a happy man. Harry Starks is a very _disappointed_ man, a disappointed man that has reached the end of his tether.

The white hot poker as it descends is nothing more than an abstract tool that bleeds sensation into flesh that blisters and burns, that flays the meat upon the bone until it becomes rich and black and ichorous. His boy has long since ceased screaming, the pale body twitching in the death throes and perhaps this is all too cruel but Harry doesn’t take such betrayal lightly. He takes it as a personal affront and so he’d taught this upstart a lesson he’ll never forget, even in death.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Eames remarks, nonchalant, and the melodious alto soothes in the way that the stench of hot, cooked flesh cannot, never can. Violence is in the very nature of Harry, woven in the fabric of his heart and mind and DNA. It’s as much a part of him as his lust for the men that warm his bed, as irrefutable as verifiable truth.

Harry merely raises a brow as he tosses the gradually cooling instrument aside to cup his lovers’ cheek, a thoughtful expression on his face. Thumbing the plush lower lip he regards Eames with eyes that are still cold, still bearing the weight of such deception but the downturn of his mouth says more to Eames than those bottomless eyes ever could; that above all Harry Starks expects many things, expects unending loyalty above all else.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you Eames,” and it’s not a question but a statement of fact as he leans in, his breath hot against Eames’ lips, barely a hairs breadth away from claiming them as his own.

Eames is stock still; his loping shoulders slumped forward in defeat, and though he is undoubtedly casual in demeanour there is something hard beneath all the softness. “Never,” he says, and Harry knows it’s _forgery_.

The steel in his gaze does not waver.


End file.
